Traveling Trials
POV Pellegrina, Chapter 2: Why were you at Helgen?
Once they're safe, Pelle and Magrakh take a moment to recover and get to know each other, but it's clear there's a lot they're keeping secret, which leads to suspicion.
7:30 PM, Morndas the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
The only thing keeping Pelle from feeling like a burden is that the Orc is just as tired as she is.
Anise is dead.
Pelle was of little assistance, but her plan worked.
Magrakh, still filled with adrenaline, seems unable to sit still. He surveys the area around the cabin, despite the fact that no one else is visible at first look. He then searches the shelves and peeks down the cellar.
After a few seconds, he spits a series of curses, some of which are in a language Pellegrina can not understand.
Her burns are soothed by the evening chill as she sits on the porch. She wonders if the shivering is caused by the cold humidity from the nearby river, or if infection has already set in.
After a few minutes of rest, she rekindles the fire in the sunken hearth using the firewood that Anise had prepared for the night. It's impossible not to gaze at the flames once they start dancing.
Magrakh, on the other hand, seems satisfied with his inspection and heads towards the only chair, sitting down with the grace of a mammoth.
Both of them bear burns from their escape from Helgen, but the Orc is also recovering from a stomach wound inflicted by a sword.
Pelle is worried.
She doesn't really know how healing potions work, and even though the one she gave to Mag seems to have stopped the bleeding, the wound is not fully healed, and internal damage cannot be ruled out.
Then, still restless, Magrakh goes back into the hut to rummage through the baskets, grumbling in search of food.
"I can cook," Pellegrina offers, "so please stop biting into that raw potato."
He hands over the potato, content with the prospect of a real meal.
The hut is more or less as Pelle expected: hidden among the lush shrubs and trees along the riverbank, poorly constructed with holes in the walls and roof, dirty due to the wild surroundings, and featuring a small garden with leeks and potatoes.
There's a rabbit hanging from a hook, and Magrakh grabs it and tosses it to Pelle, but she fails to catch it.
Pelle gives the Orc a dry look and examines the rabbit to assess how long it had been hanging there. "How do I skin it?"
Magrakh looks puzzled. "Seriously? You say you can cook, but you don't know how to skin a rabbit?"
"I grew up in a city, so if we needed meat, we went to the market and bought pieces; we didn't go hunting in the woods. Do you know how to do it?" Mag retrieves the shovel from the garden as she removes the knife from her bag.
"Yeah, it's not that complicated, just cut from one side and peel it like a fruit."
"How helpful…are you burying her now?"
"I'll sleep better knowing she's underground."
"Wait," Pelle says, following him outside. "I could use her things."
"Isn't that what we're doing?"
When Mag sees Pelle undressing the corpse, he exclaims, "Are you serious? She probably shat herself!"
"Nothing I can't wash off." She answers. Her robe might be enchanted! "Bury her near the garden, it'll be good for the vegetables."
He's staring. "You're crazy," Mag says, shaking his head and walking away.
Pelle leans out of the window. "I'm not crazy, I'm pragmatic. For example, we could also remove the fat from the body, what do you think?"
Mag comes to a halt while dragging the body and turns to Pelle.
She was serious, but he seems to be waiting for the part where she says, "Ha ha, just kidding."
"To make soap and torches," she clarifies.
As she notices Magrakh staring at her as if she were a witch, and he accidentally killed the wrong woman, she quickly says, "Never mind."
Magrakh drags the body as far away from the hut and the garden as he can without saying anything, until Pelle can't see it anymore, at which point she hears the shovel repeatedly striking the earth.
Pelle feels safe enough to pull out her phone now that he's digging. She gently places her bag and the plastic tube in a corner and searches her survival apps for information on how to skin small animals.
Because the instructions differ from app to app, she chooses to watch a video tutorial.
Sadly, there is a significant gap between the efficiency of the experienced lady in the video and her inept attempt. It takes her half an hour to remove the fur, and what does not come off she slices with a knife, including the paws and the head.
Anise must have hung the rabbit on the hook for a long time, as it dried out but hasn't gone bad yet. However, there are no wounds or crushed bones.
Did she kill it with magic? Pelle wonders. Using spells for hunting must be easier.
Soon after, the water in the cauldron begins to boil, and she leaves it to do so while she chops a leek and extracts a couple of cloves from the garlic heads hanging on the walls. The smashed garlic, sliced leek, and the rabbit in small pieces end up in a small pot over the fire, where they sizzle and brown rapidly.
The sounds of digging stop just as Pelle starts peeling the potato. The hole must be ready.
Killing Anise was incredibly easy, Pelle thinks, inspecting the shelves for herbs or spices to add to the salt she brought from home, mindful not to touch anything she can't identify. One can't be too cautious in a witch's hut.
She finds some sage–or rather, here in Skyrim they call it Elf's Ear, a rather unfortunate name.
All Pelle had to do was lure Anise away from her cabin and into the thicket near the river, pretending to be an injured girl fleeing from bandits. Her battered appearance from the fall of Helgen helped a lot in playing the part.
The witch didn't notice Magrakh until he slammed into her from behind with all his weight and momentum. Anise's hands sparkled for a split second before Mag's axe firmly embedded itself in her head.
Pelle makes sure to stir continuously to brown the food evenly. "How I wish for some olive oil," she murmurs, worried that without grease everything will burn before it cooks.
Like a dog drawn to an alluring scent, Mag appears at the door and notices the remnants of the rabbit on the table.
Judging by the look on Mag's face, he must have expected a quick roast, not a stew, but she notices the longing in his gaze.
"You didn't put the head in?"
"Of course not!" Pelle says. "Besides, don't need the brain to cure the pelt?"
Mag is shocked. "You're okay to disembowel a woman for her body fat, but a rabbit's head is too much?"
"It's not like I was going to eat her fat!"
The Orc grumbles, disgusted. "Never mind, it's just a little useless fur. Why do you want it?"
Pelle shrugs, not really having an answer. She thought all furs would be useful in this world.
"Well, I don't care about a rabbit's fur right now, and neither should you. Is it ready?"
"Not even close," she says, taking a bucket of the boiled water to let it cool outside.
The contents of the small pot are transferred to the cauldron with the rest of the boiling water, along with the chopped potato and the Elf's Ear.
Then she adds wood to the fire, and before he can touch the chair with his ass, she says, "go wash your hands, please."
Pelle half-expected him to tell her to fuck off, but someone must have inflicted him with manners at some point in his life. He takes a pinch of ash and, with a deep sigh, steps onto the porch to pour some water from the bucket.
Before he returns, Pelle takes the cleanest cloth she can find in her bag, along with the disinfectant and gauze from her first aid kit.
She doesn't give him a chance to sit when he comes back. "We need to clean up these burns," he says, "and that wound on your belly."
"There is no need, it will heal itself. That potion has already done most of the work."
Pelle resists the growing desire to sigh. "I don't think a potion can save you from everything, or that cut would have closed already. I don't know about you, but I don't want to die of infection after surviving a dragon!"
She's not sure if it's the promise of a warm meal, the exhaustion from traveling all day, or the fact that his burns must hurt as much as hers. Certainly, it's not trust, for he tiptoes around her as if he expects to be bitten, but he accepts.
Anise didn't even have a door, and only a ratty tarp divides the heated cabin and the chilly outside. Such a nippy evening during summer should only exist in the Southern Hemisphere.
Pelle was a little concerned that Mag would stare at her once naked, or that he would be too ashamed to take off his clothes in front of her. But he seems to have no qualms about disposing of the Imperial armor and the sweaty, bloody rags he had as a prisoner.
First they wash off the dirt and soot, then they dress and bandage each other's wounds.
The lukewarm water feels cold on the burns and makes them shiver, but it's a relief from the incessant stinging.
Magrakh's situation is clearly the worst, having protected her all the way through a burning Helgen filled with bloodthirsty soldiers.
She's grateful for that, and it's the reason she's willing to share the limited contents of her first aid kit.
They don't talk nor waste time, and because they're not skilled, they're clumsy and impatient to hurry back to the warmth of the hut.
Regrettably, they must put on their ragged, soiled clothing again, but Pelle knows that being dirty is preferable than freezing, and every extra layer helps.
Skyrim is not warm like home…
As they go back inside, Pelle reflects on what she saw.
The Orc is stocky, as he imagines most of his people are, and he certainly has the muscles of someone who has wielded a weapon most of his life. But she can't help but notice that his skin is a color she would almost call 'human', and not in the range of greens of the game's Orcs.
His complexion is ashen, faintly tinged with sage, but the green is imperceptible under the warm light of the fire, which makes him look simply tanned. And while he has tusks, they aren't the sharp, prominent teeth that game characters have. His barely peek out of the lips.
Magrakh is her first introduction to Orcs, and she has no one else to compare him to; she doesn't know what they are supposed to look like, but she frankly expected them to be bigger. He is about a foot taller than her, but so is her sister. There were similarly tall Nords in Helgen, and even his hair is also auburn like a Nord's.
She knows she shouldn't feel disappointed that Mag isn't the stereotypical fictional Orc character she expected, after all he's a real person in a real world, somewhere in the universe. If nothing else, his gray eyes with no irises, and with star-shaped pupils, are fascinating and downright inhuman.
All in all, he looks like a grumpy carrot-haired Nord with disturbing eyes and a jutting chin.
The stew is simmering and starting to look good.
"What do we do with this, then?" Pelle points at the rabbit's remains.
Mag sits down by the fire with a weary sigh. "Put the head in, it gives flavor."
"True," Pelle says in the tone of someone who actually disagrees, "but it also gives it eyes, ears and a mouth…and I've seen enough cooked faces to last me a lifetime."
Mag winces and nods silently, so Pelle takes them, opens the door, and throws them into the garden.
The faint crackling of the fire and the boiling of the stew are soon the only sounds. Crickets and the constant splashing of the river on the rocks can be heard in the distance. It's dark and without much help from the two moons, so their fire is the only light around.
Mag inhales and exhales deeply, and he, too, stares into the flames for extended periods of time. Everything about him suggests he's exhausted, from his sluggishness to the vacant stare in his eyes.
But he is alive.
They are both alive, so she is not alone in this harsh world; she sees their encounter as destined, forged in dragon fire and tragedy.
She will turn him into a friend with time, Pelle is sure.
"I wish the stupid witch had some mead lying around," Mag mutters.
Pelle stirs the stew a few more times before grabbing a journal from her backpack. Fearing the tangled strands of her thoughts, she resolves to recount the events of her first day in Skyrim.
Avoiding English to keep the contents hidden from Magrakh, she begins to exorcise recent and traumatic memories by writing them down on paper.
She recounts her arrival in Helgen Keep, in the midst of the city's destruction, and how she noticed a wounded Orc while humans from both sides of the civil war fought each other.
She discusses her concerns about being alone, getting killed, being burned alive, and being buried in rubble.
Not only that, but she recalls how she found the potion that miraculously halted the bleeding from what looked like a fatal blow. The Orc then shielded her from the soldiers and rubble that rained on their heads, while she guided the way out of the city.
The hostile Stormcloaks had taken over the Keep's underground passageways, forcing Pelle and Mag to seek an alternate path. So they climbed over a collapsed section of the walls, slid down the rocks, and raced into the woods.
Finally, there's Magrakh's appearance, her plans for her new life in Skyrim, and her hope that their alliance will help her in the early stages of her quest against Alduin.
Before she can finish her musings, the restless Orc begins to fidget.
"So," he breaks the silence, "why did you leave home?"
What a curious question. Pelle knows she will have to lie a lot in the future, but she didn't expect to have to start on day one.
"A dragon set fire to it?"
"No, you didn't live in Helgen." Mag states without a doubt, showing that it is more than obvious to his eyes that Pelle is a foreigner.
She sighs and writes down the last words before they slip from her mind. "I was not happy with my life at home."
"Why not? Fresh meat from the market…doesn't sound like you were starving. Shit husband?"
"I'm not married."
Mag looks her up and down as if looking for something, and it almost makes her laugh because he just saw her naked a few minutes ago! What else is there to see?
"You're not that young," he finally declares, "and you're not that ugly either."
"Wow, thanks."
"Couldn't find a man?" He asks.
"I never wanted one."
"Ah, so dad and mom made your life difficult because you weren't getting married?"
She doesn't answer, annoyed by the accuracy. Why doesn't he understand that she wants the conversation to stop?
"Do you like women?"
"No."
Finally, Mag notices her defensive tone and stops asking questions.
The silence stretches, with only the creatures of the night filling it, occasionally causing them to startle with sudden howls and hoots.
Pelle stirs the pot. "It's almost ready."
Mag's sole answer is a pleased sigh. She can't help but agree, even though she can also sense his uneasiness in his ever-moving hands and the way his eyes follow her every move.
"My parents and I didn't get along," she offers an explanation to placate him. "I like to draw and paint and have made a lot of progress. I could even say I'm good…but where I'm from, traditional artists have a hard time finding decent paying work. I didn't want to end up hating the only thing that made me happy."
"Why would you hate it?"
"I feared it would turn into a relentless search for a job, risking getting commissions from people I don't like, or having to use my skills for things I don't agree with."
"Is that all? This is the reason you walked away from the safety of a home?"
"No, this is why I quit painting as a career. Instead, I tried something else, which infuriated my parents."
She stirs again and takes a small sip.
Mag watches her carefully. "Ready?"
"Almost," she says, getting a long sigh in response.
"So, what other things did you try?" He asks.
"Well, it's complicated. Let's say I bought wholesale products from locals to advertise and resell them to…a much wider audience."
Mag frowns. "You can say 'retail shopkeeper', I'm not a stupid savage."
Pelle smiles. "It's not the same, but it's similar."
He seems unconvinced, and to soothe his nervousness, he grabs a stick from the fire to play with his hands.
"What's wrong with that job? I don't understand."
In the ensuing silence, Pelle wonders whether to change the subject to funnier and safer topics, or if to explain.
"Looking for new things and experimenting with combinations was fun, but I was never supported or encouraged, on the contrary…it was clear what everyone thought of my choices. I tried to ignore them, but any job has its ups and downs, and they made the failures feel heavier. Living with them had become unbearable, but I couldn't afford to move. I never had a big income, but then after a couple of bad moves, I ended up broke. They pounced on my mistakes like a pack of wolves."
She is silent for about a minute and then starts talking again to fill the silence.
"I was sad, and they were disappointed, so we ended up arguing. At first, despite the aggression, I thought they really wanted to help me, but after a while I realized that they kept repeating the same insults and complaints."
Pelle sighs, uneasy about the subject, but at the same time unable to stop. Mag doesn't look into her eyes, but he's listening intently.
"When I decided to study art, they got angry, but they got even angrier when I stopped. They got angry when I said I wouldn't marry nor have children, and they were furious I stopped going to church with them. After a while, every part of my life became the object of their anger: my job, my friends, my few hobbies, what I bought, and even what I ate. They made me feel guilty about everything I did!"
Mag is silent, and Pelle suspects he is uneasy. Or perhaps he regrets having asked. Then, at one point, his stare shifts away from the flames, and she returns it with one full of anger.
"This is why I left. I was tired of feeling guilty about living my life! I needed to see if there was anything else I could do, because I really had to leave."
Eye contact breaks after a few seconds.
"Well, you can cook. You could work in an inn, and one day open your own or something like that."
Pelle smiles at his attempt at support. It's not helpful, but appreciated.
"And you? Why were you in Helgen?"
'Why were you a prisoner?' is the real question.
Magrakh looks down and starts playing with the stick again.
"The Imperials captured everyone in the vicinity of their clash with the Stormcloaks."
"But you sided with them in the Keep."
"I'd rather trust the Imperials than a group of traitors." Mag huffs and taps the wooden planks.
"What were you doing when they caught you?"
"I was hunting."
Hunting, sure…
"Are you a hunter?" She asks.
Mag sighs the sigh of someone who would rather talk about literally anything else, which makes her laugh a little.
"I used to be a miner. When the mine where I used to work dried up, I headed East in search of another. I was on the hunt for a deer when I noticed them fighting in the distance. The Imperials didn't like my poaching in the midst of their battle." Mag concludes by hurling the stick against the wall in frustration.
Pelle knows there's more to it, but she lets it go.
After a few minutes, the stew is ready, and she fills a couple of bowls. At least that cheers him up.
"What's in that scroll holder?"
She looks up, surprised, and realizes he's referring to her transport tube.
"You kept it all throughout Helgen. It must be important if you refused to leave it when running from a dragon."
She hands him a full bowl, but she notices that she waits until Pelle takes some before eating.
"It's a painting."
"I guessed as much."
Pelle lays the bowl down and unrolls the painting inside.
The canvas depicts a little two-story cottage with a dirt courtyard and large chestnut trees surrounding it. It's sunny outside, and a cat is snoozing in the shade of the front door.
There are also black lines that snake over the canvas, filling in the shadows of the city in the background and the branches on the trees, and appearing here and there across the canvas like cracks, although in relief. They appear to make no sense in the realistic artwork among all the vibrant colors.
"It was my home."
Mag nods slowly. "Your folks are well settled. It doesn't look like Skyrim, though, there isn't even a mountain in the background. Is this Cyrodiil?"
"Yes," Pelle decides to reply after a couple of seconds, "I've recently crossed the border, and had just stopped in Helgen on my way to Whiterun."
Mag glares at her, and she knows immediately that the lie isn't believable enough.
But he lied earlier too, and if he's smart enough to catch her lies, he's smart enough to know that she did the same.
It's clear that Magrakh doesn't trust her, and if that doesn't change soon, she risks waking up alone.
Or dead.
The painting is rolled up, and he watches the blue sky disappear back into the tube.
"Do you regret leaving?"
"It depends on the moment. I regretted everything as the dragon set Helgen on fire."
"That I can understand." Mag laughs.
"But in general? No."
Mag licks the side of the spoon where some gravy has built up.
"You've given up on a secure life with enough money to start a business or two, probably three meals a day, and a nice house. That's a lot to throw away for nagging parents and a thirst for adventure."
She nods. "But if I had stayed, I would have managed to kill myself."
Mag looks up.
"And I'd rather not die," Pelle adds.
She's keeping her eyes on her bowl, calmly eating spoon after spoon.
He says nothing. She has ready answers if he dares to ask, but he doesn't.
Strange. Pelle expected judgment, such as 'there are those who would murder for what you have,' and while she is relieved she won't have to listen to any, the silence weighs just as heavily.
Magrakh refuses to sleep in the cellar, claiming the warmth of the fire and the existence of a bed as reasons for not following her downstairs.
Yet she knows the truth. Not that it's difficult to see. Magrakh doesn't trust her, and if sleeping in different rooms helps maintain the peace, so be it.
"Thanks for helping me today," she tells him as sincerely as possible, fervently hoping he'll still be here in the morning.
Mag is dumbfounded, clearly not used to being thanked. "Um, you too."
He even seems sincere.
"Good night, Magrakh."
The Orc is not entirely wrong: without the heat of the fire, the cellar is cold, but the ground dampens the perpetual sound of streaming water and the nocturnal animals, making her feel safer even with all those skulls on the shelves.
When Magrakh saw them, he cursed for several minutes, but Pellegrina doesn't mind.
She knows they are real skulls, and she knows they weren't acquired in the same manner as a museum or science lab would…
Who knows, maybe she's played too many video games and watched too many movies, but they are not scary.
Apart from the earthy scent, a mixture of plant and animal odors pervade the room and tickle her nose unpleasantly. The light she brought downstairs is the stub of a candle that looks homemade.
Pelle shakes her head, of course it's homemade, there aren't factories here!
They haven't explored the cellar yet, having merely peeked to determine its safety, and because Pelle is alone, she takes advantage of the more efficient light of a LED flashlight.
In addition to the skulls, which are scattered almost everywhere, there are vases, jars, wicker baskets, and sacks.
Do I want to sleep knowing or not knowing what's inside all these containers?
"Yes, I know, I know," she tells herself, opening a jar.
Her curiosity is almost pathological, she had no chance of winning.
Apparently, inside are preserved herbs and vegetables, grains, and a worrying amount of bones.
Pelle is no forensic specialist, but she has studied human anatomy enough to recognize certain bones at a glance, and they seem just like human bones. If some are human, it is likely the others are too.
The fact that they are stacked with the rest of the food makes her worry about the old woman's eating habits…
Are the witches of Skyrim cannibals? Or just this one?
And she cooked the stew in her cauldron… Best not think about it.
Wait. Pelle looks at the candle Anise made. If she was a cannibal, this could be a 'human' candle, right?
Let's not tell Magrakh…
There are a few soul gems that are easily identified due to the video game's comparable look. These are big crystals in semi-transparent colors ranging from pale pink to pale blue, some of which are discolored while others are brighter and refract light in an unsettling manner.
If Pelle had to guess, she'd say that's the difference between empty and filled, and one of the 'full' gems is black.
Although Pelle is not native to this world, she is aware that simply holding a black soul gem is illegal, let alone selling it. Unless you're a lady who travels between worlds and knows everyone who deals in contraband and those who might want to buy it.
Among the hodgepodge of other clutter, she also finds clothing, coins, and some weapons.
The clothes, which include cloaks, shoes, and gloves, are an odd mix of styles and sizes. Some are ladies' dresses, some are work shirts and trousers, some are simple robes. The weapons aren't many, just a few daggers and knives, a sword, and an axe. But looking at the footwear is enough to realize the significance of this small collection.
It appears that the folks Anise met did not make it very far. The heads on the shelf, the bones in the baskets, and their possessions all over the place.
She can't wait to tell Magrakh…
At least, she thinks with a chuckle, there are enough clean clothes for both of them.
8:00 AM, Tirdas the 18th of Last Seed, 4E 201
"Absolutely not," he says, crossing his arms like a child.
"Mag…"
"Don't call me 'Mag', and no."
Pelle sighs.
There is smoke and the scent of coal in the air, which has surely been blown by the wind from Helgen, and it is seeping in through the crevices in the hut and creeping into the cellar. They both pretend not to be bothered by it.
"Look, whoever they were, they're dead. The clothes are clean and don't stink, unlike ours."
"True, but–"
"It's creepy, I get it."
"Really?" Magrakh raises an eyebrow. "Because I'm unconvinced."
"Okay, do you want the truth?" She asks, frustrated. "No, I don't find it creepy. Are you happy?"
Pelle also overcomes the impulse to cross her arms, instead keeping them spread out, palms open as a show of peace. She is hoping that her body language prevents him from feeling threatened.
"I find it sad," she says, without the sarcasm and with more calm. "I find it unjust, and if I allow myself to think about how we might have ended up the same way if things had gone wrong, I find it frightening."
Mag snorts in what she chooses to believe is agreement.
"But we have significant burns, and we need to keep them clean to avoid infection, but our clothes are crap. Especially yours, which are nothing but rags."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't my personal choice." Mag protests.
"I'm not blaming you;, I'm only telling you that there are items in here that might fit you. If you don't want to wear them, that's fine, I will. What about the weapons? Are they good? There are also soul gems, one of which is black."
Magrakh startles as if she slapped him.
"We could sell them." Pelle says.
"Not the black one, we can't!" Mag cuts the air with his hand. "I'd go straight back in chains!"
"Hey, there's a nice coin purse too." Pelle says, immediately catching Magrakh's attention. "3 gold, 7 silver, 64 bronze."
"You mean copper, I hope."
"Um, right, yeah. Sure."
I'm an idiot, these are not Olympic medals! It's copper, not bronze.
Mag looks around the cellar as if zombies could be crawling out of the walls at any moment.
"Okay, let's get the useful stuff upstairs. I don't like this place." He says, glaring at the arcane enchanter, a table carved and adorned with human skulls, candles, bones, and goblets of unknown contents.
Pelle brings one of the cups to her nose; the content smells like ammonia and is maroon and gelatinous.
"You see, this I find disturbing. Especially since I don't even know what it is."
"Then, by the Divines, stop smelling it!"
Mag gathers everything he can hold into her arms before quickly fleeing to the ladder.
When she follows him upstairs with a heavy load, Mag is sitting in the chair, examining the blade of the weapons one at a time.
He's not looking at her. "Now that there's no death with wings flying over our heads, tell me how you found out about this place."
The tone and body language is different, and Pelle admits she feels intimidated. She carefully lowers the clothes and bags onto the table.
"I stumbled across it while exploring."
He nods, contemplating the hilt of the sword.
"It looks like you've been exploring far and wide for someone fresh out of the border."
He's tense, almost ready to spring, and he's surrounded by slashing weapons. It's not just a scare tactic, he's preparing for an attack! Whether it's to defend himself from her, or to attack her, Pelle couldn't say.
Why would he think she'd attack him? Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't stand a chance.
"Although I'm new to Skyrim, I haven't just crossed the border, and as I've already explained, exploring is what I've been doing lately."
"How did you know Anise was a witch, and how are you still alive? Looks like everyone else left nothing but a nice skull on a shelf and a pair of boots."
She shrugs. "What do you want me to tell you? Would you even believe me?"
Mag admires a dagger. "It depends on what you say."
"I suppose I simply got lucky." I quickly left after reading one of her letters on the bedside table."
"If you've been here before," Mag says, unfazed, "how is it possible she didn't recognize you yesterday?"
Pelle tries to chuckle, but her throat is dry.
"For the same reason she hasn't seen or heard you: she was an old crone, her eyesight was bad! Listen, Magrakh, I understand that you don't know me and that's why you don't trust me, but there's no need to be paranoid. What could I possibly do to you?"
Finally, Magrakh looks up, and Pelle notices how cold and accusing he looks.
"Why don't you tell me?" He hisses with surprising venom.
Why is he so aggressive this morning? What did I do?
Pelle raises her arms and gestures to herself. "Didn't you realize that I'm not exactly battle-ready? Wasn't yesterday proof enough?"
Mag doesn't respond, but seems to be thinking for several seconds.
"What will you do now?"
"What will I do?" She sighs. "I don't know, I think I'll stay here for a while. The burns worry me, but with the river nearby I can keep them clean, and there's a fair amount of food in the cabin. Not a bad place to recover. You mean you're not staying?"
It seems to be the wrong thing to say if Mag's growl is the answer.
"Didn't you say another witch is coming? The one from the letter."
"Yes, Anise's sister. She was writing to another girl too to try to establish a new coven. I warned you that all of our options were risky, and you picked this one."
Mag snorts, waving the hand that still holds the knife.
"That's not the point. A witch is coming, and I'm not going to wait and see what she thinks about her friend's murder!"
Their relationship is already on the rocks, insisting they stay would break it–or her skull, if Mag is thinking Pelle has something to do with witches.
"Okay," she says, "where do we go then?"
"We?" Mag is surprised, but the tone is challenging, and says, 'why should I let you come with me?'
Because I saved your life, asshole, thinks Pelle.
But she doesn't let her expression show how disappointed she is.
"Come on, do you really want to leave me alone just because you don't know me well enough?"
"You can't defend yourself," Mag says, deadpan, "you're not ready for battle, like you said. You're dead weight."
"I'll learn," Pelle says immediately. She'll have to do it anyway, Alduin will not kill himself. "You could teach me!"
Magrakh's big mouth curls up in a grimace.
"Also," she continues before he can interrupt, "didn't you say you'd have a hard time in the cities because you're an Orc?"
At those words, Mag gives her a curious look.
"I'm a human, and I don't give a shit how green you are or how big your teeth are. The eyes are impressive, I'll admit, I've never met an Orc before, but I think I can act as a buffer between you and the rest of this–" Pelle waves at the door– "shitty human society."
Magrakh looks confused. Or maybe he's just considering her clearly unexpected words.
"Like I said, I've been exploring quite a bit. I know of several interesting places, but I need someone who can wield a weapon to exploit them. You help me, and I help you!"
She grabs the purse of coins and waves it to emphasize the point.
"After all, you're not in a bad situation for a prisoner who was destined for the executioner and who just escaped from a dragon, right?"
Then, as if he never said no twice, Pelle picks up a thick flannel shirt and throws it at him.
"I think this will fit you." Mag catches it in the air with the caution reserved for a bullet, but she doesn't even watch his reaction before heading towards the pantry.
"How about roasted potatoes for breakfast?" She takes a twig on a string. "Ah, I can make a snowberry tea to go with them."
"Anything roasted is a good idea," Magrakh says after a short silence.
"Well, then tell me what your plans are for the near future while I fix us some breakfast."
They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
Pelle always believed that was bad advice. After all, if you win a man over solely by cooking for him, it probably means that he sees you as his cook, which has very little to do with his heart.
Nonetheless, there is an exchange of trust between people who make food and those who consume it.
Not for nothing is it a method of attracting the attention of hesitant and wild animals, utilizing the oblique link between safety and food supply.
Magrakh is obviously not an animal, but like any mortal creature he has to eat, and does not seem inclined or able to go beyond 'grab and chew'.
This simple reason, a warm and satisfying meal, may be reason enough to lug around some 'dead weight'.
Some trust may develop during the process, but Pelle is not giving up. Magrakh was the first person she encountered on her first day in Skyrim, and the situation in Helgen made it even more special.
Fateful even.
But above all, Pelle doesn't want to be alone in this world full of scary things.
Magrakh tells her how he was caught near the Eastmarch border and proposes they go see if any of his belongings are still there.
"I think going back is a little too risky," Pelle says as she peels potatoes. "But I get your point: you no longer have a single dime, and to be honest, I'm broke as well. But what would you reply if I asked what you thought about robbing the dead of an ancient and precious bounty?"
Pelle notices Mag's face turn to attention out of the corner of her eye, just as she had caught the twinkle in his eyes when she presented the coin purse.
"How precious?" Mag asks.
Slicing the potatoes into crescents, she gives him a mischievous smile.
Pelle doesn't know how to win this man's heart, and she doesn't care, he can keep it.
But she suspects the road to his trust lies through his pockets.
Notes
The next chapter will be July 24th and is from Magrakh's POV, it contains: a paranoiac orc, a battle, an otherworldly experience, and the Dragonstone.